Recovery
by queenofowls
Summary: Dedue's family is dead, his village is burned to the ground, and he is stuck in a foreign land with a strange foreigner prince who wishes to befriend him. And he is only fifteen years old. [Set during the aftermath of the Tragedy of Duscur Updates Fridays.]
1. PRESENT: Isolation

He wishes to be left alone.

He is not.

"You can hate me, you know." The quiet voice of the prince echoes in the bed chamber as Dedue stares out of the window. Towards home. He could just be imagining it, but he feels like the haze from the morning sun is smoke, carrying with it the ashes of the blacksmith's forge.

His father's forge. His fatherland. Both as lifeless as his father is now.

"I know." Dedue looks down at his hands, at the callouses still forming there. He should not be here in Fhirdiad, in the haven of these demons. He should waking up to a new dawn, to the feeling of his sister pinching the backs of his arms to rouse him and laughing when he swats her away. He should be cooking alongside his mother and checking their Zanato crop to see if there will be tomatoes with their breakfast. He should be training in his father's smithy, learning to repairing weapons with the smell of fire in his clothes and sweat on his skin. Not here. "I do."

The younger boy's eyes light on him warily. "As you should, I suppose. I think your people innocent." Dedue replies with silence but the prince does not stop speaking. "I fear they died for nothing."

_And now I live for nothing._ He wishes he could ask the prince the question that burns in his chest. _Tell me, Prince. Do you think my land was worth the blood of your family? Are the monsters you call soldier sated now that there is nothing left to call mine?_ There is a pain, more than an ache, a mourning sense of outright _hatred_, in Dedue's chest... one that he is certain will never go away. Hearing the prince's simpering platitudes do not help. "If there are any condolences to be said, I am sorry for your loss." The words feel stale, yet sharp. They pierce him through with longing.

Could this demon truly know or understand the extent of his loss?

He looks at the pristine castle walls, the lavish tapestries, the silk fabrics of the bed he has no choice but to sleep on and cannot imagine it so.

"Do not mistake my silence for a listening ear, Dimitri. Do _not_ speak to me." Dimitri's eyes widens at the sound of his name.

"People usually call me..." He trails off. "Never mind. I suppose you're right. I should leave you alone. But... ah... Rodrigue says that it's best to cry if you need to when you miss them. I have trouble doing that myself, though," he admits. Dedue does not care about this boy's tears. He is aware that this prince lost his family, but because of him... because of _him_...

If this demon had not been born, if those royals had not set foot on their soil, his family... his village... his people would not have had to die.

While his mother and father would go unburied for the animals to eat, this prince's mother and father would be paraded through the streets in caskets inlaid with gold.

While this prince would be sheltered in this castle, fretted over under the watchful eye of this so-called Rodrigue with people to care for him, like the children he sometimes sees enter the castle from the window... he has nothing.

No one.

Not even a place to call home.

Gap-toothed, lazy Ricci in the neighboring hovel next door, who he had to drag by the ear to get him help him weed the fields and take the eggs from their chickens...

Isadora, the intimidating one-eyed hunter with striking lavender hair who he could not help but watch as she passed, even though his eyes only pressed to the ground if she looked in his direction...

Her younger, kinder sister, who smiled and delivered cuts of Duscur bear through the harsh winter and laughed at his dumb struck expression... _"This one's extra from Isadora,"_ she whispered once. Isadora had cuffed her. _"Don't tease the boy and give him hope. You know I've no interest in such things."_

The way his heart felt crushed at those words, and yet he could not stop himself from looking again...

They are all gone.

He feels as though he is suffocating within his own skin. _Death would be better._ Why should he, the lowliest of boys, live, when even the royals of his land had perished under the metal of the Kingdom murderers? For a moment, it comes over him again, hard, brittle resentment. The prince should have let him be slain, let him be laid to rest with the rest of his people.

It is true that there had been a moment when he realized that he would not die, a moment where he felt such choking relief that he did not know what to do with the emotion, but that was before he realized the scale of the loss. Before the woman who cleaned this very room saw his face and his skin and his heritage on him like a stain, and looked at him with barely concealed disgust. He overheard her as she cleaned the toilet room with another member of the palatial staff.

"I can't believe we got one of _them_ soiling our sheets. I'd like to know what the prince is thinking, letting _them_ in here when they've proven that they'll murder anyone. Animals, they are."

Animals?

Were not the true animals the ones who invaded far up into his homeland, set the forest aflame and salted the fields, and impaled poor Bautista through the chest when he couldn't even speak to scream? He will never forget the flapping hands of his non-verbal friend, fluttering to a weak halt as he bled into the snow while Dedue hid in the trees and tried not to make a scream in his place.

The people of Faerghus... the ones who killed them all with such lack of sympathy, the ones who approved of the murder of unarmed men, women and children, old and young, healthy and ill... they are the true animals.

And he hates them.

And he hates this one before him most of all.

"If you wish to speak with me, I'll be in the tearoom with Rodrigue. Perhaps if you..." The prince emboldens himself. "Perhaps if you were feeling up to it, you could join us as well?" Dedue does not mean to reply, but he cannot withhold the anger in his chest. It is like a forge burning in his chest with constant flame.

"Dimitri, do not pretend I am wanted here."

"Pretend? You mistake me. I just... I want you to feel at home."

Home? He looks at the prince's smaller frame, foreign blue eyes, foreign pale hair and foreign pale skin and feels as though he will cry. This cold, drafty castle filled with people who look as though they have never worked with their hands, bent in the soil, felt the warmth of the sun, or heard the beat of a drum of Duscur... People who stare at him with hard eyes as though he is filth beneath their feet... It is nothing like home. He cannot imagine a time when it will ever be.

He tries to speak, but his voice is raw with the kind of pain and vulnerability that he could never conceal. "My home is dead. Murdered. By people like _you_."

Dimitri's eyes tilt downwards. "I am not like them," he says quietly. "I thought... I thought placing myself in front of the blade would be enough to prove it." Dedue looks away again, staring out in the open sky of his prison. Behind him, Dimitri's voice is earnest, almost pleading. "How can I earn your trust? We both have nothing now, you know, and I... I only wish to be your friend."

_Friend?_

He shuts his eyes, brows furrowed.

Dedue cannot imagine what the endgame of this foreigner is. Is it not enough to crush everything that he loves, that he has ever loved? He cannot erase the image of his mother and father's burned corpses, his father's charred arms wrapped protectively around his mother's shoulders. Why does this demon continue to speak with him with that irritable voice? Is it not enough that Dedue was forced to hear the screams of his younger sister as her blood poured out into the ground?

_"Kill these roaches first. Start with the girl."_

The girl, his younger sister. His only sister. A playful trickster of a girl who loved to dance and, on occasion sing, badly. A girl who was once the fastest runner in their village, who could out cook even the most experienced auntie in their village. She had a name, once. Chiara. In their language, the name meant bright, clear because in his parents' eyes, she was like a star. In his eyes, she was like a star.

He tried to protect her.

He failed.

Perhaps it is better that his father was killed first because Dedue is unsure that he would know how to face him if his father knew of Chiara's fate.

Dedue takes a deep, even breath in an attempt to control himself. He refuses to cry in front of this stranger, but he cannot stop the flow of memories.

He remembers how often his mother and father spoke of her birth. Duscur families are large, and he always knew how out of the ordinary their small family was. He remembers how often his mother would wake him to offer prayers for a new birth in their village and how, for the rest of the day, she would stare distantly out of the window, hand upon her own empty belly.

And then came their star, their miracle child. _"We love you, of course,"_ they would say to him. He remembers the affectionate touch of his mother's hand against his cheek. _"And when Chiara was born, our family felt complete."_ Then would come the teasing. _"If only we knew she was going to be a naughty girl!" _And Chiara would laugh, and he would push her off the bed with the flat of his foot, to her protests. They hoped so much for her, and now she is dead.

He does not turn to answer to the prince, does not wish for him to see the angry tears he holds tight to.

"My friends are dead. And I have no desire to replace them."

* * *

**I'm trying something new, and something sad.**

**I've always felt... some kind of way about how the Tragedy of Duscur is almost ALWAYS used to refer the deaths of nobles and not the genocide and destruction of a land and people so... I've decided to write the story from the perspective of Dedue, a survivor.**

**Reviews are much appreciated because this is... really a new direction for me.**


	2. PAST: The Day of Blood

_"Dedue, my petal. Wake up."_

He clings to his blankets, squeezing his eyes shut. Any moment now, his youngest sister will begin to pinch the back of his arms in an attempt to get him out of his bed. He ignores the sound of his mother's voice and tenses as he waits for her pinch.

It does not come.

"Dedue, you must wake NOW." He forces his eyes open, nerves strangely bundled in his stomach at the brisk sound of his mother's voice. He answers her groggily, with some nervousness.

"Mother, whatever Chiara say, I didn't do it, I-" She doesn't allow him to finish the sentence.

"We don't have time." She pulls him to his feet. He can barely stand, he's just so sleepy, he's just so- "My petal, listen to me carefully. Pack a change of clothes for yourself and your sister. We don't have much time." The words get his attention, even if he can barely stand.

He is not one for words, but hers are so shocking that he cannot help but to stare at her in confusion. "Mother? Time? TIme for what?" What does she mean? He tries to get her attention before she moves away, but she is already in the kitchen portion of their one-room home, throwing open the cupboards with abandon. The action unsettles him.

Normally, if he leaves the shelves open when it is his turn to prepare their meals, she scolds him. Dedue rubs his eyes. "Where are we going? Where is Father?"

"Your father is... he is at the village gate. Now, hush and get a change of clothes. Two, if you can fit them. Quickly. Quickly!" Dedue stands in the middle of the room, trying to process what is happening.

"Mother-"

"Dedue, just listen to me!"

"Why-" The force of her hand against his cheek awakens him. There is no anger in her eyes when she does so. Only... only fear. The expression unsettles him. What could his mother be afraid of? Her voice is sharp and loud.

"NOW! And quickly!" Dedue obeys blindly. His mother... has never hit him before in his life. He does not know what is happening, but he has never seen her so anxious, or so afraid. Chiara, his younger sister, throws open the door breathlessly.

"I've got the weapons like you asked, Mother."

"Good. Set aside the sword for me and string the bow like I've taught you." She looks at Dedue. "Take the axe holster."

Axe? He notes the weapon in his sister's arms with confusion, tying a knot on the bundle of clothes as his mother, her own arms full of loose bundles of food, urges him out the door. The air smells of something burning in the distance and he chokes on the smells. His mother rushes past him, basket in her arms. At the sight of his unsure footsteps, she grabs Dedue's hands and pulls him behind her.

"Dedue, Chiara, listen to me, my son and my precious light." His mother squeezes his hands. "There is army outside the village gate from Faerghus. They are burning everything in their paths. The Queen has already-" She shuts her eyes, biting his lip. "Your father is mounting a defense with the others. As for you, you must run to the southeast, through the flower fields and towards the mountains. Stay away from the roads."

His legs feel weak. He always been unsteady on horseback. "What about you?"

"Never mind about me. You must go."

"Why didn't you send me to the gate with Father? I could help, I-"

"Dedue! There is no time for these questions! Chiara, come now!" His sister runs from the house, quickly placing her dolls on the horse's back. She is soon to be a girl of thirteen and has had no use for them, but their mother only presses a kiss to her hair. She holds her children for a moment as though she does not want to let go, but when she does, she speaks to his sister first. "Chiara, you must listen to your brother." Chiara, to her credit, only nods silently, the thick silvery braid worn over her shoulder gripped tightly in both hands.

His mother hands him Bapo's reigns, and as he takes them, she grips his wrist, her nails pinching into his skin.

"The axe is in Bapo's cart, Dedue." Dedue swallows hard. He does not bother to remind her that he has only just learned out to _repair_ axes and he... he barely knows how to wield one, not really. "You are a man of Duscur now. If you must kill to protect those in your care, so be it." _Kill...?_ She squeezes her eyes shut and presses her lips to closed hands but he is still frozen on the word. _**Kill?**_ She expects him to... to...

He can't even finish the thought, his voice cracking with prepubescence. "Mother. I cannot do this." He looks down at her with serious eyes, a gaze she has always pinched his cheeks for, scolding him not to look so much like his father. Where is the laughter in her eyes from the night before, when his father told a bawdy tale as they ate together? "I have not even gone the rites of manhood. How can I be a man of Duscur when our village has not yet-" His mother opens her mouth to cut him off when . A commanding voice follows.

_"Check them all! Every house, every tree, every rock for those murdering roaches! Justice must be served against such filth. Spare no one!"_

There's a voice, a voice he knows well. "Please, we surrender! Take me, but don't harm my daughter, please, she's just a-" It's the voice of Izara, the dairy farmer. She just gave birth only three months before. A chill slips through him. Why would Izara need to plead for a child? They would never kill-a scream fills the air. He has never heard such an anguished sound, the raw howl of it so animalistic that it makes his hands shake with fear. His mother's eyes grow wide, her face settling into an angry stare.

"I will hold them back. Remember my instructions. Through the flower fields, to the mountains! Go, go, go!" She slaps the back of Bapo's rear, setting the horse running. Dedue clings to Bapo with his thighs, taking comfort in the feeling of his sister's trembling arms around him as he urges the horse faster. He has never ridden so quickly in his life, twigs whipping his face and hands, drawing blood.

Then suddenly-

There is a rush of heat and flame, an explosion, and Dedue is flying through the air. He nearly slams into the ground, but nearby bushes cushion his fall before he tumbles off of them into the snow, his wrist crunching painfully beneath him.

The wind knocked out of him, he feels like he cannot move an inch-and it is in this state that he hears a voice that chills him to his bones.

"Excellent work, Gremory. I see the girl. You, soldier! Search find the other filth. I saw two of them on the horse. I'll take care of the girl."

_Girl?_ He forces his eyes open, tries to roll over onto his stomach, but his legs... pain shoots up his left leg. Is it... is it broken? He refuses to accept it. He cannot be this weak. Mother... mother told him to... He fights to roll over, ignoring the pain and trying his best not to scream as he searches for strength. His thoughts are scattered. _The axe... where is..._ cannot let them harm Chiara. Not her. Not his only sister. He cannot... His eyes try to shut, his vision tingling at the edges, but he forces them to stay open.

Through the bush, Dedue can see her, face and body pressed into the snow. There's a soldier's foot on her back, her braid wound around his hand as he pulls, forcing a scream from her throat. Dedue is filled with a rage he has never felt before, a burning in his blood. The strength to stand finds him, but suddenly, as if she knows, Chiara's eyes somehow find his. There is so much fear in them.

_"Don't,"_ she mouthes. And he hears them, the sounds that he does not know will haunt him in his sleep for years. The sound of a sword sliding out of a scabbard. The sound of her whimpering.

"Please... please just let me go, please don't hurt me, sir, I won't tell anyone, please-"

"Look at her, begging." Dedue forces his eyes to focus, but weighed down by the snow, the wind knocked out of him, he cannot see clearly what is happening. He only hears her cry out in pain again. "I'll bet the king wished for mercy when your fellow rats killed him."

"Please, sir. I-"

The sound of silence. Red against snow.

Dedue vomits. And then he sees black.

* * *

**Thank you for the responses and reviews. I have a bit more confidence in the direction I want to go, so thank you very much for your support. ****I'm sorry that I can't update this more than once per week! Actually... writing these chapters is really difficult. I've been doing research to properly convey the story and it is... rough on me emotionally.**

**I hope that the story serves its purpose, though, and that it's still enjoyable to read.**


	3. PRESENT: Denial

He doesn't know how he wakes up every day, but somehow he does.

Each day, there's always this persistent feeling of suffocation as if in his dreams he is drowning and when he awakens he breaches the waves to a poisonous shore. He opens his eyes, the water of that poison wet on his face, slipping down his cheeks and through his hair, into lush velveteen pillows the color of the cold blue of a cloudless Duscur sky.

He misses home.

The darkness in the room tells him that it is nighttime. The scrap of the door against the floor tells him why he has woken up.

His heart stops. Finally, someone has come to kill him. He has always known that the day would come, but... but... in a way, he's almost relieved, because the tension he feels each time a soldier eyes him when the prince comes to visit, the emptiness he feels as the sun passes above him with the hours... both will end. He cannot help but embrace it if it means the anguish he feels as he is forced to face each day will end.

To Dedue's surprise, however, instead of the glint of a soldier's blade peeping from the doorway, he sees another type of dark shine-that of a flame and its glistening candle holder beneath. There's a much smaller figure in the there, silently shutting the door behind him. It's... the prince? Dedue eyes him warily as he approaches with a strange, restless haste.

"Oh! You're awake. Good. I'd like you to speak with you." Dedue says nothing at first, in part because of a strange sense of relief that he will not die, in part because of stranger disappointment that he will not die. The prince draws closer still, to repeat his words. "Did you hear me? I'd like to-"

"Why are you here?"

The prince is silent at first. Then, tentatively, he sits on the edge of the bed. "I'd... I'd like to teach you to fight, if that's okay. If you can fight, then-" He's not sure what come over him, but Dedue's fist slams into the prince's cheek, tight and hard. Surprise knocks both the boy and the candle to the ground, and he finds himself scrambling towards the figure, anger in the heat of his fingertips.

"_Don't_ tell me what to do, _Prince_." He spits the title with contempt, his hands wrapped around the prince's throat. He cannot help himself, his finger tightening around squeezes. Squeezes, squeezes, squeezes until he feels the prince's bones crack and the life fade from his eyes.

Except not. Instead, Dedue straddles the prince and as much as he wishes to, he cannot command his hands to squeeze any tighter, or at all. Instead, tears leak from his eyes, spattering on the face of the boy beneath him. He is not a killer.

Not yet.

His voice is rough.

"You deserve to die." He can feel Dimitri swallow, his throat pulsing against his thumbs. He swallows and tries once, twice to speak from beneath his hands.

"I do. But not before..." But Dedue chokes the sound off before it can come out completely. He doesn't wish to hear his voice, his excuses.

Dimitri doesn't manage to get the words out at first, but as Dedue stares down at him, trying to decide whether or not he can force himself to end the prince's life at the cost of his own, there is something he does not expect to see in the boy's eyes. Calm. This boy is utterly unafraid to die. Is it because the men of Faerghus are demons who cannot die and any attempts he make will be fruitless? Or...

Or is it because, like Dedue, he too has nothing to lose?

"Before what?" He loosens his hands enough to let him speak.

"Not before I... kill them..." _Kill them?_ Dedue lets go of Dimitri, a choking gasp filling the space between them as he coughs, reclaiming his air. Any moment now, he expects him to call for the guards so they will come rushing in to cut him down, but somehow he does not. Dedue scrambles off of the prince, backing away as he sits up, but before he can move out of range, the blond boy grasps his wrist. Dedue tugs away, but the boy's grip is like steel, sending him tumbling forward for a moment. He lets out a silent wince of pain as he leans into his still healing wrist, trying his best to hide the pain.

It occurs to him that this boy is _much_ stronger than he looks. Certainly strong enough to fight him back and, he can reluctantly admit, strong enough to win. Yet... he did not fight him off. _Why?_

"I told you..." Dimitri takes another moment to compose himself. "I don't think your people are responsible. That means that someone out there _is_ responsible. Someone not of Duscur. Maybe even... maybe even someone in the kingdom."

Dedue pauses, staring the prince in the face. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because. I need you to know. All of the people I loved... are gone now. I keep wondering why I didn't die, but they did?" Dedue's throat catches. It is a question he has asked himself, many, many times. "I don't deserve this life, I already know. But," his expression darkens, his voice completely numb of anything warmth, "the people who killed my family... my friends... I see no reason they should live either. I _will_ hunt them down like the animals they are, and when I do..." To hear a voice so much younger than his filled with so much hatred... it surprises Dedue. The expression must show on his face, because Dimitri sounds surprised as well. "Surely you feel the same?"

_Surely_ he feels the same? What a presumption. Dedue says nothing in reply, considering for a moment. _Does_ he want revenge as this prince does? Maybe he does, maybe he doesn't-but his desire to have nothing in common with this demon of Faerghus doesn't allow him to say yes, even if his own feelings are unclear. When he does answer, his tone is flat.

"No."

"No?" Dimitri's blue eyes widen in surprise as he lets go of his wrist. "Is there truly no one you wish to kill to avenge your loved ones? Not even... not even me?" In truth, he would rather have his family back more than anything. He has spent the past few weeks grieving so much that he cannot imagine much else. Then again... maybe he does know the answer.

In his mind's eye, he feels the prince's neck beneath his hands again and is unsure. _Could he kill? Should he want to?_

"I hate you," this, he easily admits, "but..." Dedue trails off. He isn't certain of how he could possibly finish that sentence.

Dimitri considers bitterly. "My father's last words were to avenge him. I cannot imagine how you would want any less." Dedue tries not to grit his teeth to protest, but in truth, he does not know. He did not have the luxury of hearing his father's final thoughts and words and desires. What _would_ his father wish for him to do? Dimitri interrupts his considerations.

"I'm sorry to disturb your sleep." Feeling blindly in the darkness, he finds the fallen candle and its holder, grasps them both tightly. "Please consider what I've said. About learning to fight."

Dedue thinks to ignore him, but instead... he finds himself nodding slowly, solemnly.

If he was equipped to fight back on that day, then perhaps...

Perhaps nothing.

If his mother, former mercenary and the greatest swordsmaster in their valley could be slain... then he is certain his chances would have been no better. Still... if there were a chance that something would go differently... then again, there could not be a next time, largely in part because are no people of Duscur to save. Then again, if there were a chance that he could...

Back and forth, his mind challenges itself. And then, there was the central question that burns him up inside most of all.

_Could he learn to kill?_

The decision haunts him through a sleepless night, and when the daylight comes, the royal returns with it, along with a morning meal as he does each day.

Just last night, Dedue tried to end his life and yet...

"Good morning." Dedue doesn't move from his spot in the window. His wrist and ankle are still on the mend in the slow way that the human body naturally possesses, if only because no healers have come by to help him otherwise.

He is a little glad for it, if only because he has a feeling that someone will slip a knife in his ribs and finish what the soldiers started, but some of it is a bizarre thought that if he is healed, he will somehow fade into the numbness that has slowly begun to sink into his skin without the pain to remind him that he is alive. The voice is a little louder. "If you aren't busy, I was hoping we could take a walk?"

A walk?

The startled feeling in Dedue's chest must blossom on his face because Dimitri sputters for a moment. "I know, you aren't completely healed yet, but... but Lord Rodrigue says that sunlight will... help." Dimitri leans in and Dedue can see that his eyes are rimmed red. Does he cry too, then, over those he has lost? How strange that every part of him tells Dedue that this child is a monster and yet he can only see his human disguise more vividly than most. "Plus, I... I've come to remind you of our talk." Their talk... mere hours ago.

Dedue wonders for a moment if the invitation to take a walk is a trap. He has not left this room's walls since he arrived... but something tells him to agree regardless.

Not because he wishes to hear what the prince has to say-he does not-but because... the prince seemingly has yet to to tell anyone about their altercation the night before. He glances at the two posted guards at the door, both staring daggers at him. From experience, Dedue already knows that if he moves too quickly, their grips on their weapons will inevitably tighten as a warning, but this is... well. Normal behavior for them.

Dedue has no choice but to assume that the prince has said nothing. He sighs inwardly. Then again, as if he could really refuse... A part of him knows somehow that if he says nothing, there will be unique consequences as well, so he tries his best not to sound reluctant as he replies.

"I cannot walk well." At least he has the excuse of his slowly healing leg to lean on.

"Yes, I... about that. I was hoping you wouldn't mind being attended to today. I'll... I'll be right here, to make sure nothing will happen to you. Lord Rodrigue said-" He cut off suddenly. "Never mind. Is that alright, then?"

Dedue, in truth, would rather not be touched by what he imagines will be rough hands on the part of whomever is in charge of mending his bones back together. He wishes for his village healer's gentle hands, scolding and teasing and soothing and threatening to tell his parents of the mischief he once causes with the other children but such memories only serve to hurt him. They are just as much his enemy as they are his comfort.

And then, there is the bothersome small fact that if it is at the prince's request, he's not really sure if he has the right to refuse. "Do as you wish."

Dedue walks silently on a mended leg, his wrist still aching slightly. There's a suspicious part of him that wonders if the healers didn't finish their work purposefully but he doesn't think to worry on it. How can he, when he has larger concerns-namely, the fact that as they walk the palace grounds, every person they have passed has stared at him with, at most, thinly veiled disgust. He wonders if Dimitri does not see.

"I wish to ask a question." Dedue looks at him. If anything, he is the one who has a question for him. _Why didn't you call for a guard? Why did you let me try to kill you when you could fight me off with ease?_ He can almost feel the words on his lips but he can only stare. Perhaps it is not a moment to be bold, but...

"Only if you allow me one." Dimitri looks surprised at the reply, then nods eagerly.

"Certainly!" There's a strange enthusiasm in his words that Dedue cannot yet match, so he merely waits. "Um... there is only one on my mind, really. What's your name? I'm certain you already know mine."

_Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd._

Oh, he remembers. He especially remembers the guard outside the door who asked Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd why this animal, as she kindly called him, was allowed to speak call him Dimitri. He wonders what else he is supposed to call him. The ruler of Duscur was called Lysinthe. When that ruler was spoken of in his home, there was no alternative name. Just 'Lysinthe'. He wonders if there is a difference in culture, but just as quickly decides that if there is, he does not wish to adjust to it.

The prince is still looking at him in earnest, waiting.

"Dedue."

The prince echoes his name. "Dedue." He pauses in the hallway, stopping fully. "Isn't it strange how the first time you hear a person's name, it has no meaning, no associations?" Taking another step forward, he leads him to another set of doors into a more open outer hall, large paneless windows lining the corridor. The guards open them before they even reach the threshold. Quietly, Dimitri speaks as, for the first time in an age, Dedue's face feels the touch of the sun and the chill of the outside air. "I hope that one day my name can mean something to you."

Mean something? "Like what?" The question comes out more skeptically than he intends, but Dimitri grasps his shoulder with the same quiet intensity from the night before.

"A friend, Dedue." He smiles wryly. Bitterly. "I'm afraid there are too many vacancies open. Call it desperation." Dedue isn't quiet sure what to say. "No matter. What did you wish to ask me?"

Dedue opens his mouth to answer, but as he walks, his foot catches on the cobblestone of the castle floor. He stumbles for a moment towards the prince, his shoulder bumping against him.

Immediately, before he can register what's happened, Dedue bites back on the outcry as his previously broken, aching wrist is yanked behind him, a knee pressed jammed into the back of his own to make him fall to the ground. Before he knows it, he's on his stomach, stone pressing into his stomach and back. For a moment, he is frozen there, his mind flashing back to the sight of his younger sister pressed into the snow beneath the boot of soldier who killed her in cold blood. Not only that, but Dimitri's words. _'Is there truly no one you wish to kill to avenge your loved ones? Not even... not even me?'_

He wasn't sure there is no one he would avenge but now...

Before he can push off of the ground, the weight is miraculously gone. Dedue pulls himself to his feet as quickly as he can, turning just in time to see the knight who pressed him into the stone crash into the far wall with the force of the prince's shove. The sight makes his blood run cold. Just... _how strong_ is this prince? He has no time to wonder on it because the next thing he knows Dimitri is in front of him, arms and legs spread in a clearly defensive position.

"If you harm to Dedue, your life is forfeit." Dimitri says the words in a voice that, it surprises him to hear, is shaking. Shaking with what, he could not say, but the quiver in his voice is unmistakable. Fellow guards rushes towards the commotion, one attending to her fallen comrade, apparently knocked stone out from hitting the stone wall of the hallway. She looks up at Dimitri, aghast.

"Your Highness! How can you defend one of this... this _kind_? He is one of them! He is responsible for his Majesty the King's death! If not for _them_, you would want for nothing-"

"Enough!" At the outburst, the soldier stops. Dedue knows that he is not a monster. But he cannot fathom why the prince is so bent on saving his life. He almost hopes that he will answer, but the prince only stares back down at her and repeats himself in a more, measured tone. "If... you harm... Dedue, your life is forfeit. Am I understood?" He can only imagine what the prince's expression is like. The soldier drags her comrade to his feet, staring at Dedue with hatred in her eyes before she looks back at Dimitri.

"Understood."

"Good. Your services are no longer needed while Dedue and I are in the gardens. You're all dismissed."

The soldiers swap uncertain glances as they help the fainted man to his feet. One bites back a protest as Dedue stares down at him nursing his bruised elbows. Dimitri turns back towards him, his face carefully neutral, his expression is but another mask. "Shall we?"

Dedue follows dutifully down the hall, the haste in his step largely because he knows that he cannot dare glance behind him. These soldiers and guards have the power to end his life in these walls if he wished... it is best not to make even more enemies, but... if Dimitri will defend him so openly, it seems he will have no choice.

"_Now._ What did you wish to ask me, Dedue?" The prince asks the question again as they continue down the hallway, this time alone. Dedue thinks. There are, in fact, many things Dedue wishes to ask him, but... as he stares at the prince, they all disappear, leaving only one behind. His mouth sets into a straight line.

"Why do you defend me when so many despise me? Surely you know how they view me." Dimitri grasps Dedue by his shoulders.

"I know, yes."

"Then you know they wish me dead, like the rest of my people. You know it is impossible to change their minds."

"I know what they wish, but if that is the case, then it will never be fulfilled." Dimitri gazes towards the sky distantly. "When you imagine the future, Dedue, what do you see?"

_Future?_

"Nothing."

"Then we are the same. I thought I knew what my future held, but everything is gone. I think only you can understand that." He looks at Dedue earnestly, but Dedue cannot even feign an expression that would mask the fact that he does understand. In every way. Dimitri notes the look in his eyes and nods in agreement. "Even now, the future seems like there is nothing, but... Lord Rodrigue says that I must make the future something. That it is my duty as the future king." Dimitri looks crestfallen for a moment. "If you were me, Dedue... what would you do?"

"I don't know." He replies quickly, quietly. Dedue hesitates, his father's words echoing in his mind, leaving his chest warm and aching. His father impressed the lesson in his mind and heart. _Duscur-born protect the weak in our care._ But there are no Duscur-born now. Just him.

"I'm certain we can figure it out together. Either way, I promise you-as long as I take breath, no one will in Faerghus will bring you lasting harm. If there is anything you need, say the word and I will be sure to make it a reality." The fierce determination in Dimitri's voice brings with it the image of the child running in front of the blade to protect him. "I owe it to you."

Every part of him tells him that he cannot trust this prince, and yet... the blood that the prince has shed for him pushes every one of his uncertainties out of the window.

"I will learn to fight, if you still wish to teach me." He glances around himself, aware of the danger of his saying so as lowers his voice. "And I will not use it against you." He pauses, a stipulation rising in his mind. "As long as you don't get in my way." He's not sure that with the prince's strength he'd have a chance at defeating him, but... he cannot help but feel it must be said.

"Good." Dimitri smiles, then frowns. "Get in the way of what?" Dedue struggles with whether he should trust him with the reply, but... the prince has taken a chance on him. He will at least give him this.

"Much like you, there is someone I must to kill." Dedue says the words looking at the prince, but if Dimitri were unsure that Dedue were actually seeing him, he would be absolutely right. Dedue can only see in his mind's eye the sight of a soldier's pale blue boot pressed into Chiara's back.

"Who?"

He says no more. An answer for his life not being made forfeit to the guards, an answer for the healer taking care of his leg, an answer for saving him earlier in the hall.

His debts are paid and, as far as Dedue is concerned, Dimitri is not yet worthy of knowing his sister's name. He looks at the prince and chooses to simply ignore the question. "When will training begin?" Dimitri opens his mouth, then closes it shaking his head more to himself than to Dedue, blue eyes piercing Dedue's green ones.

"Tonight."


End file.
